Her uncle halted before the dark-haired man who had so disturbed her. “This one’s worthless,” he said. She had made a point to ignore the prisoner. More planters drew near anxious to view Jarvis’s leavings. Claire stood on tiptoes to see over them. The governor motioned to his slave to bring a box for her to stand on. Improper as it was, Claire could not refuse. Curious from the excited murmurs uttered from the buyers, she stepped onto the box. She should have been embarrassed the public display she made, but it was hard to look away from so interesting a performance. A duel of sorts had erupted between the convict and her uncle. Out of spite, she silently cheered the convict. He would never win, but by the snorts of the planters he was close to succeeding. Her uncle would never be made a fool, yet this man was doing his best.
Without warning, the felon turned to face her, and caught her staring for a second time.
He wasn’t merely a devil. He was Lucifer himself. He grinned at her under a thick black beard showing, even white teeth. He held her gaze as if it were some long lost recognition. She could not quell the rioting in her stomach.
His gesture was odd. But significant of what? Not a condemnation, still an indication of something else. A nagging familiarity touched her very soul, but for the life of her, she could not name it. She twirled her parasol and glanced away in confusion. If only counting the crates piled on the dock would hinder the pounding in her heart. Oh the horrible man.
She dared to look again. Those eyes flashed upon her, flustering her with their directness, and now that he had her attention again, moved over her in that same slow manner that she had done to him− deliberately, she did not doubt to turn the tables on her. And there was not one thing she could say about it. To do so would proclaim to the world that he was returning the compliment. The downside, she knew was no compliment, but the worst insult any man could offer. Good God. Had he assumed she invited his personal attention? He needed to be taught a lesson.
Her uncle whacked his cane against the convict’s thigh, a signal to separate his legs. It was an action that embarrassed her, not for herself, but because it was a humiliating gesture. Why should she care?Because she had felt the lash of that cane before. The prisoner hid his anger well and seemed not the least perturbed. He refused to answer any questions. Her uncle forced his cane between his lips to view his teeth. In a flash, she saw a wall of hate emerge. He mimicked her uncle. In a reckless stance, the prisoner held his arms akimbo and viewed her uncle as if buying him. The other planters gasped. Everyone, even the prostitutes were stunned into silence. Despite his dangerous situation, he still mocked the world. In secret admiration, she watched as he met her uncle’s withering glare.
“Bah. This scarecrow would give me nothing but trouble. I’ve had my pick. Let the auction begin.” Her uncle withdrew, his first and final pickings of human merchandise satisfied.
A look of anguish appeared on the blond-haired prisoner beside her hero, as if upset he would be separated from the dark-haired felon. She noted a shifting of chains and downcast eyes from the other prisoners shifting to the man with spirit. She paused to wonder.
“Oh, Claire.”
She heard so much despair in Lily’s hopeless appeal.
A plan sprung into her mind, a daring, and most improper scheme. She was shameless, and the whole world would know it. Wouldn’t it serve her uncle right for his high-handedness toward her? She lifted her gloved hand and let her voice rise above the crowd.
From the dark bowels of the ship and the grim shadow of Tyburn Tree, the day emerged fantastic. To be bought and sold was a new kind of experience for Devon Blackmon. He noted the fervor and emotionalism of the crowd eager to make a quick bargain. He was in no mood for conversation, so he ignored the foam of white faces that heaved before him in speculation, then passed on. He considered his fortitude, fortunate that in all the circumstances he should still have his sanity. He marveled in the fact that being convicted and innocent, he had cause for thankfulness for he stood beneath the same firmament asshe.
“What the devil were you thinking?” Ames said beside him. “You have separated us.”
Devon’s eyes gravitated to the cheering doxies as each remaining man was auctioned off. Then his eyes drifted to the gentleman someone had greeted as Governor Stark, a short, stout, red-faced fellow in puce taffetas burdened with an exceeding amount of silver lace. Next to him stood two ladies, one of which had seized his immediate attention. All that luxurious chestnut-colored hair. Memory and emotion surged in his soul like a tempest.
He had caught himself staring at her, fully conscious of his sorry state, and knowing there was no sheet to conceal him from her view. Unwashed with rank and matted hair and a disfiguring black beard upon his face, he must appear a fright. The clothes in which he had been taken prisoner reduced to rags. It was the pity in her eyes he resented.
“Five Pounds.” She pointed to Devon.
Did she recognize him? Everyone turned to her, shocked. Angry murmurs rose and the woman standing next to her gasped. The doxies cheered. Devon realized a woman bidding at a slave auction would create a stir.
“Six pounds,” said another male bidder.
“Ha.” The Governor laughed. “My dear Claire, you better bid higher, or your merchandise will be foisted off to Mr. Cox and his bauxite mines.”
Devon ground his teeth. The months of inhuman, unspeakable imprisonment, pending execution, chained below decks on a voyage where men perished had moved his mind to a cold and deadly hatred of King James and his agents. Worse than the insults and outrages upon his person, there came the final humiliation of being bartered for their amusement.
“Seven pounds,” said the girl with the warm amber eyes. The man who did his best to humiliate Devon forced his ponderous, rolling girth through the crowd to get to her.
Devon’s senses intensified, so aware, so focused. Unbattened sails flapped in the breeze, and a raven cawed overhead. The air rose fragrant, exotic scents unlike any he had ever breathed. Black ragged slaves bargained over bananas, coconut, and strings of black and white striped fish. In the distance, a great fort guarded the harbor, its cannons pointing potently to sea. But beyond all this, his senses stayed intensely focusedon his wife, the new object of his enmity.
“Eight pounds. Get your niece under control, Baron Jarvis,” cried the mine owner.
Devon’s eyes hardened.Niece. So the same blood ran through her veins as the foul beast, and he judged, the evil with it.
“Stand down Claire, this instant.” The baron’s face contorted with malevolent fury.
Claire. Devon remembered her name well. To imagine he felt pity at one time for this vain creature. Images emerged of that despicable eve in the gaol. Her moving confession dosed with fear and tears. Blood scorched his veins as she looked down on her uncle.
“Nine pounds,” she challenged.
“He’s worth nothing,” spat the baron. “He could not last one day in the fields.”
“Ten pounds,” demanded the owner of the bauxite mines, determined not to allow a woman to beat him.
Captain Johnson stood up on a crate and protested. “He has value. He is a doctor, kept his legs and saved many men aboard the ship. Don’t be fooled by his leanness. He is tough and healthy all right. He has just what it takes to bear the heat when it comes. The climate will never kill him. I’ll stake my honor on him.”
